


Mr. Crappy's Political Party Talk Radio Show

by tiptoe39



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: 2016 US Presidential Election, Alternate Universe - Radio, Anti-Trump, Based on a Tumblr Post, Bernie Sanders - Freeform, First Meetings, Getting Together, Hillary Clinton - Freeform, Love at First Sound, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Phone Calls & Telephones, Politics, Radio, Remember a more optimistic time, The politics is just a backdrop, alternate universe - hillary wins, at least that's my headcanon, donald trump - Freeform, liberal, pro-hillary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 10:41:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8976388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiptoe39/pseuds/tiptoe39
Summary: Hopefully enough time has passed since the election that you can read this, remember a more optimistic time, and enjoy the love story. This takes place during the 2016 presidential election, when we all had so much more hope. 
The original post on tumblr was as follows:  ok but! political talk radio Host Mr. Crappy a la Stephanie Miller, Bitty is the young call screener/intern and Jack is a Humorless Liberal who calls in but gets inexplicably popular because he’s such a great straight man against Mr Crappy’s bombastic style. 
This is a pro-Hillary and anti-Trump story, so reader be aware.





	1. Bitty & Jack's conversations

“Halllo, you’ve reached the Political Party show with Mr. Crappy, this is Bitty, can I have your name, where you’re from and what you’re calling about?”  
“Yes, hi, this is Jack in Providence. I’m calling to talk about Trump’s speech.”  
“Well, hello there, Jack, I’m gonna put you on hold and Mr. Crappy’ll pick you up when he’s ready. Make sure to mute your radio and just listen through the phone, okay?”  
“Okay.”

* * *

  
“Hallllo, you’ve reached the Political Party show with Mr. Crappy, this is Bitty, can I have your name, where you’re from and what you’re calling about?”   
“This is Jack in Providence. I’m calling about the new poll.”  
“Why, hello there, Jack, I remember you from last week. Liked that point you made about Trump’s awful sexism, bless his heart.”  
“Not sure he deserves blessing.”  
“Well, you sure ain’t from the South. Now, I’m gonna put you on hold. Make sure to mute your radio, mmkay?”

* * *

  
“Hallo, you’ve reached the Political Party sho–”  
“Hi, Bitty, it’s Jack in Providence.”  
“Well, bless my soul, Jack, that’s the third time you’ve called in in two weeks.”  
“Do you get sick of callers like me?”  
“Oh, no, our regulars are the heart of the show! Keep this up and you’re going to start to get a fan following, mister. You know, there’s actually a fan site for Derek in Samwell? People tweet his points all the time. You and Shi– I mean, Mr. Crappy have some good chemistry, so it could happen to you!”  
“I don’t need more fans.”  
“What, already got a fan club of your own? You somebody famous, Jack in Providence?”  
“…”  
“No, no, it’s okay, I don’t need to know. We’re all just voices on the phone in here! Anyway, sweetheart, what did you want to talk about today?”  
“Oh, right. Um. I had a point about Hillary’s interview on ABC.”  
“Right-o, then, Jack, the mystery celebrity! Oh, don’t worry, I won’t say a word, not even to Mr. Crappy. I’m gonna put you on hold then, sweetheart…”

* * *

  
“Hallo, you’ve reached the Political Party show–”  
“It’s Jack.”  
“Well, hallo again Jack, I missed hearing from you last week!”  
“Yeah, I… had to travel for work.”  
“Ooh, sounds fun! A lot of travel, your job?”  
“A fair amount. What about you? I imagine Mr. Crappy’s got you chained to a desk.”  
“Well, now, I make do.”  
“How did you end up at a New York-based show? I… can tell you’re not from New York.”  
“Haha! You’re right about that, but I actually went to college in the Northeast. Mr. Crappy was an alum, and it just so happened I was graduating just as he was looking for a new associate producer, so we got connected. And  here I am!”  
“Do you like it?”  
“Hm? My job? Well, sure. I get to talk to all kinds of interesting people.”  
“Dream of getting a show of your own someday?”  
“Oh, gosh, me? What on earth would make you think that?”  
“You’ve got a nice voice.”  
“I… Jack, you’re going to make me blush over here.”  
“I’d like to see that.”  
“What?”  
“…Nothing. Sorry. Anyway, I’d like to talk about the Senate debate…”

* * *

 

“Hallo, Jack!”  
“How’d you know it’s me?”  
“You think I don’t have caller ID on this machine? Please. I memorized your number, fella.”  
“Oh. I didn’t think of that. How are you?”  
“Good! I went to Pride this weekend. So much fun! Do they have a Pride in Providence? Or would you have to go up to Boston? Oh, I’m not saying you personally, just you in general.”  
“Um, yes. There’s Pride in Providence. And… yes, I’ve been.”  
“Oh, I _see_.”  
“If… um… if you ever find out who I am, please don’t tell anyone that.”  
“Jack, the call screener’s booth is a sacred place. You don’t have a thing to worry about. I’m not in the business of outing people before they’re ready. Among other things, that’d make me a hypocrite.”  
“Not totally out?”  
“Oh, you know… my parents are… well.”  
“Never mind. I get it. Thanks, Bits.”  
“Bits? Oh, Lord, that’s cute! Nobody’s ever called me that before.”  
“But people call you Bitty?”  
“Oh, yes, well, that’s just an old hockey nickname from college. I liked it, so I kept it!”  
“…Hockey fan, then?”  
“Little bit. I like playing more than I like watching, but I keep my eyes on the playoffs. Speaking of which, y’all in Providence must be pretty stoked about the Falcs’ win still!”  
“Yeah. Um. We are.”  
“Well, I’m sorry, sweetheart, I didn’t mean to talk your ear off about Pride and hockey and a million other things. What were you calling about today?”

* * *

 

“Hi there, Jack!”  
“Hey, Bits.”  
“Good to hear your voice, honey.”  
“Good to hear yours. So what’s this about a station fundraiser?”  
“Oh! Well, considering Mr. Crappy’s message, you know, we don’t have the corporate funding that a lot of shows have. So we still need a little help from donors to stay afloat. We have some cool donor gifts, though. For a $50 donation, you can get a water bottle that says ‘Get wasted, brahs’!”  
“Hahaha. That would be funny at the gym.”  
“Exactly. And of course our premium prize for our thousand-dollar donors, a chance to meet Mr Crappy himself at a special luncheon. Only thirty slots, so if you want to meet him–”  
“Hey, about that.”  
“Mm-hm? I can answer any questions you have. Of course donations are tax-deductible, and we take them via credit card, Paypal, or personal check if you’d prefer…”  
“I only have one question.”  
“Oh? And what’s that?”  
“If I donate the thousand dollars, do I get to meet _you_?”


	2. Shitty's POV

Shitty “Mr. Crappy” Knight does not need a “straight man.”

That’s part of his schtick, actually. Mr. Crappy’s Political Party radio show does a lot on heteronormativity and gender roles. “Trust me, friends,” he says, grinning through his mustache as though his listeners can actually see him, “you can get those on any old channel. If I’m gonna have a straight man, I want a gay one.”

But, at least since he started in radio, another part of his shtick has been poking fun at Humorless Liberals– “and let’s face it, you know you’re out there,” he says. So when somebody wants to call in and discuss how Shitty – or “Mr. Crappy,” his FCC-friendly nom de plume – should really stop telling jokes and start Seriously Discussing the Issues, Shitty runs them over like a zamboni machine. “This is not and will never be C-SPAN,” he tells his audience. “And I’ll tell you something else. You don’t look up out of your copy of the Congressional Record and smell the roses once in a while, you’re gonna miss life.”

So that’s Shitty’s stance on serious codgers. They’re fresh meat, and he’s a bear, brah.

Except this Jack from Providence is a different animal. Jack never complains about Shitty’s jabs. Hell, he laughs at them – if a soft “Haha” can be considered a laugh at all – and plows right ahead with this point. His singlemindedness is a thing of beauty. 

Shitty won’t ever forget his first call. “Jack from Providence, you’re on the Political Party,” he’d said, and gotten the standard response.

“Hi. Mr. Crappy, I’m a first-time caller.”

“Welcome to the party.” Shitty punches the button to sound the party horn. “What you got to say today, Jack?”

“I just want to know how come Trump keeps getting away with all of this,” Jack says. “Between the sexism and the racism and everything else, I don’t think there’s a person left in America he hasn’t offended somehow or other.”

“Why he gets away with it? Easy. Because he’s Trump! He’s made a career out of getting away with sleaze.”

“Yeah, but why? What is it about him that he can do this and no one else can?”

“Well, Jack, I’ll tell you. He is the human version of a McDonald’s. Greasy and disgusting, but the people keep coming back because it’s cheap, it’s all done up in bright colors, and it offers a free toy with your meal.”

“I don’t get it.”

Shitty rolls his eyes. “Entertainment value, brah. It’s all about being entertaining. That is the number one reason we value anything in this country. Why do you think we pay actors a zillion more than we pay teachers? Why are we glued to our phones? Bright colors and flashing lights and En. Ter. Tain. Ment.”

“I don’t think that’s… right,” Jack says. Shitty doesn’t know the guy, but he can _hear_ his scowl over the phone.

“Who cares about right, as long as it’s fun? I mean, come on. Look at me. You think anyone’s gonna care what a guy named Brandon Knight thinks? But ‘Mr. Crappy’ – now _that_ guy’s entertaining. That’s the guy who got his ass a radio show.”

“All that may be true,” Jack says, “but I still think we’re capable of more. I’ve listened to you long enough to know you care about things. You’re entertaining, but you wouldn’t be as entertaining if you were completely cynical. Things matter to you. And I think things matter to the Trump voters, too. He may be entertaining, but he’s offering them something they need. At least, that’s the only way I can make sense of it.”

Shitty’s stilled by this. He wasn’t expecting it from Mr. “I Don’t Get It,” monotonous Jack from Providence. But Jack’s just pretty effectively called him on his bombastic bullshit and cut to the heart of the matter. Maybe, Shitty thinks briefly, that’s what a good “straight man” does.

“I don’t know, brah,” he says. “Makes me kind of sick to my stomach to think that he’s offering something we need as a nation. How do we fight that?”

“I’m no politician,” Jack says, “but maybe … by figuring out what people need and offering them a better alternative.”

“From your lips to God’s ears, Jack from Providence,” Shitty says. “That is, if God is your jam.”

* * *

 

Jack from Providence calls back twice in the next week. Once with a wry observation about the latest polling, which he delivers deadpan and kind of perfectly. (Shitty gives him hell about out-joking the host, and Jack apologizes like a Canadian – rounded O and all.) The second time, he wants to pick apart an interview Hillary Clinton gave on ABC (”I thought her answers on foreign policy were the best you can expect, eh?”  Yeah, definitely Canadian.) Shitty lets him linger on the phone for several minutes – the kind of treatment he doesn’t usually afford callers – because Jack is an even-handed, level counterpoint to Shitty’s own reactionary POV. 

“See, it’s half-assed you-know-what,” Shitty says. Censoring himself has become second nature after a few years on the air. “This is why Bernie has the following he has.”

“Had,” Jack says wryly.

“Shut up. We’re still there, even if we’re not on top. Anyway. My point is this: Bernie didn’t mince words on this topic. He had a goal, he set it in sight, he went for it. He is a gonzo politician. Gonzo! All the way or nothing! Hillary’s so calculated, I get the feeling she can’t pee without thirty minutes of preparation. Everything’s gotta be moderated. Gotta be watered down. How sick are we of watered-down in this country?”

“The other side’s not watered down,” Jack says. “Talk about gonzo. And look how we’re reacting to them. They look crazy to us. Trump’s not leaning center, and his numbers show it.”

“So you think leaning center is the way to go? Brah, what is even the point of a party if you’re gonna listen to the dweebs who wanna straddle the fence instead of the die-hards? Who are they here for?”

“Seems to me they need to be here for all of us,” Jack replies, unruffled. “If Hillary’s going to win, she has to get at least a few of the dweebs along with the die-hards. She knows that. Trump doesn’t. And it’s going to be his downfall. Plus, Hillary’s had everything but the kitchen sink thrown at her for 25 years, eh? If I were her, I’d be a bit shy about peeing too.”

“Jack. Fella. Level with me here.” Shitty rolls his eyes. God damn it, he hates it when he has to respect people. And Jack is commanding respect right now, even if he’s wrong-wrong-wrong. “Can you even vote in this country?”

“What? Yeah, I can vote here. I was naturalized in two thousand f– how did you know?”

“Between the accent and the _eh-eh-eh soory-soory-soory?_ I think you probably taste like maple syrup.”

“Better than greasy cheeseburgers, eh?”

“See? You did it _again!”_

* * *

 

After that, Jack doesn’t call for a week on end. But that doesn’t mean Shitty’s heard the last of him. Anna in South Carolina calls up just to say she’d like to hear more of that dreamy Canadian accent. Ransom and Holster, the comedy duo who visit in-studio on Thursdays, mention him in their chitchat. Even everyone’s favorite regular, Derek in Samwell, mentions that “you oughta listen to this Jack in Providence dude and just chill about the election, man. We got this.” (Will in Maine, the cranky Republican who calls every so often just to be contrary, scoffs at this, telling Shitty that “while you all are ‘chilling,’ we’re going to win in a landslide, just you wait.”)

A theory pops up, and is quickly batted down, on the message boards: Jack might be Jack Zimmermann, the hockey player. This interests Shitty – not least because Jack Zimmermann is truly kickass – but then people link to Youtubes of the real Jack Zimmermann and point out that he talks like a freaking robot. No way does he have the sense of humor that Jack in Providence does. 

The following week, wonder of wonders, he calls again. Shitty goes to pick up – Bitty’s typed “JACK IN PVD” on the caller ID to let him know who he’ll be talking to – but the line’s still busy. He’s still being screened. Which means, most likely, that Bitty’s talking a fucking blue streak to him. Holy fuckballs. Bitty’s a good kid, but waaaay too friendly for his own good. One of these days he’s going to figure out his own gift of gab and leave Shitty for a radio show of his own. Shitty can imagine such a show all too well. It’d be three hours of Southern pleasantries and talking about baking. Who the hell would want to listen to that? 

* * *

 

“I wonder if Jack’s at Pride.”

Bitty says it between twerks. He and Shitty are up on the WNYB float at Pride, shaking their booties and laughing with some other radio personalities. Larissa Duan is there, Shitty’s pop culture correspondent and sometimes crush. She calls in every Friday to run down the latest Kardashian-related news in her constantly unimpressed tone. Now, she sits on the side of the float watching as Shitty and Bitty get down, and occasionally applauding. Shitty winks at her and does a suggestive hip wiggle; she rolls her eyes and looks out into the crowd. Shitty swoons a little inside.

He turns his attention back to Bitty. “Whassa?” 

“Jack in Providence. You think he’s a Pride kind of guy?”

“Hmmmm.” Shitty looks at Bitty appraisingly. “ _Hmmmmmmm.”_

Bitty shrinks. “What?”

“You were screening him a long-ass time when he called in last, bro.”

“He’s nice.” There’s a clipped, defensive edge in Bitty’s voice.

“Mm-hm.” Shitty didn’t see it before, but now he does. It’s as clear as frigging daylight. “Got a little audio crush?”

“I do not! I’m a _professional.”_ Bitty puffs up his chest and plops his hands on his hips, staring daggers at Shitty. The pose might work if Bitty were six inches taller. But as it is, Shitty can’t help but laugh.

“This is the part where I tell you to keep it professional,” he says, “but fuck that, brah. I hope you two have many happy babies together.”

“Shitty!” Only by stomping his little feet could Bitty look more outraged. “First of all, I don’t know what the heck the guy even looks like. Second, Providence–”

“–is not so far from New York. So here’s what I’m thinking, Bitty. Why don’t you take a drive up next long weekend. See if he wants to get together. Talk _professionally_.”

“ _Because I don’t have a car,”_ Bitty says with a death glare, and he turns away and starts working it. Shitty watches his bum shake for a few minutes and then shakes his head.

* * *

 

A few weeks later, Bitty stumbles out of the screening booth during a commercial break, beet red.

“Ummm,” he says.

“Ummmmm?” Shitty glances at him, then goes back to looking through his show prep.

“So we just got a new thousand-dollar donor,” says Bitty.

Aha, _money_ is worth looking up for. “Sweet! This luncheon is gonna be so lit.” 

“Yeah,” Bitty says. “Um. Are you sure you want me there?”

“What? Bitty, we’ve been over this. The donors are listeners. Most of them are callers, too. The callers talk to you more than they even talk to me. You’re gonna be the most popular guy there. I’mma be sitting in the back weeping into my Natty Light, dude.” He takes a second look at Bitty’s face and frowns. “Why?”

Bitty mumbles something and looks at his shoes.

“Don’t fucking mumble, dude. We gotta be back on the air in forty-five.”

“It’s Jack,” Bitty says, as softly as he can manage without being inaudible. “He says he’s gonna send in a check this week.”

Shitty’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh yeah? Really? _Really_?”

“Don’t chirp me,” Bitty says tersely. (He and Shitty still shoot some hockey lingo at each other, considering they were on the same team, if not at the same time.)

“Who’s chirping you? Brah, I’m happy for you. You get to meet your crush!”

“What if he’s, like, 60? And balding? And fat?” Bitty says.

“Dude. No body-shaming in my studio. If he is, then he is, and you figure it out from there. Maybe you fall head over heels in love with him anyway.”

“Oh, Lord.” Bitty shivers. “Now I’ve got an _image_ in my head. What if he’s–”

Shitty sees the torrent of words coming and bats them away. “Shoo,” he says. “We’re live in ten. Get your flat ass back in the booth. I gotta talk to your new boyfriend.” 

Bitty splits. Shitty settles back into his chair and eases his headphones back on. Leaning into the mike, he intones, “And we’re back, this is the Political Party with Mr. Crappy. We’ve got Jack in Providence on the line. Hey, Jack, hear you’ll be joining us in August for our summer luncheon. Gonna be a party!”

* * *

 

August 5th, Shitty goes on vacation for a week. But first comes the loyalty luncheon. It’s gonna be an interesting time, for sure. A lot of regulars are gonna be there, along with some listeners Shitty hasn’t heard of but apparently adore the show. Shitty spent a good long time reading the comments that came along with their contributions and legit tearing up. His dumb little radio show actually touches people. It makes people laugh, it makes people mad, but it _touches_ them. Shitty still can’t believe his luck that he gets to do this for a living. It’s a measly living – and he still gets harangued by his folks for not going to law school – but it’s a living he’s made himself, and he’s so fucking proud of that.

But what’s getting him going these days, when logistics and planning are a headache and a half, isn’t his professional pride. It’s not even that he’s looking forward to seeing some old friends and meeting some new ones. No, he’s being propelled through life right now by a single, delicious motivation: seeing Bitty’s reaction when he finally meets Jack in Providence face to face.

Because Shitty, unlike Bitty, has seen the guest list. And Shitty knows that Bitty will not have to worry about his audio crush being 60, or balding, or … large-boned. 

Because “Jack in Providence” is, in fact, Jack Zimmermann.


	3. Bitty's POV

Eric Bittle is very good at his job.

His job is screening callers for Mr. Crappy’s Political Party radio talk show, and Bitty is excellent at it. He’s polite, professional, and concise, while still being engaging and friendly. He picks up every call with the same lilting greeting:

_“Hallo, you’ve reached the Political Party show with Mr. Crappy, this is Bitty, can I have your name, where you’re from and what you’re calling about?”_

And then he proceeds to instruct the caller to be concise, not to waste time engaging the radio host in small talk, to be very careful about language, and most importantly, to mute their radio so they’re only listening to the show through the phone. That seven-second delay is a bitch.

He’s been at this job two years and it’s been two years of an education. The people who call into radio are a colorful bunch. Sometimes that’s a good thing, and other times it’s not so much. Either way, it makes for great radio, so Bitty’s had to learn to judge people on how interesting they are rather than how much he agrees with them. Shitty enjoys nothing so much as a good fight.

Bitty prides himself on not boiling over when a far-right wacko calls and wants to talk about how all this ell-bee-gee-whatever stuff is perversion and the tool of the devil. He is nothing if not professional. He says what needs to be said, he’s polite, and he shuffles the calls over to Shitty, who’s the one who has to actually deal with them.

Except…

Except lately he maybe hasn’t been as… professional as he should be. Or as concise. He’s not exactly saying _just_ what needs to be said.

Heck, he may be going on a bit long at the mouth.

But that’s not his fault. That’s the fault of the singularly fascinating existence of a man he only knows as Jack in Providence.

* * *

 

“Hallo, you’ve reached the Political Party show with Mr. Crappy…”  
“Hi, Bitty. It’s Jack in Providence.”  
“Well, hello there, Jack! Enjoy your Memorial Day weekend?”  
“More or less. I had to work.”  
“On the long weekend? Well, that’s a shame.”  
“Not really. I… have a pretty good job.”  
“Well, Mister Jack, you do know how to get a boy curious.”  
“I’ll tell you someday. Just not today.”  
“My mama likes to say, ‘someday’ and a nickel will buy you a cup of coffee.”  
“Your mama’s sayings don’t reflect today’s economy.”  
“It’s a figure of speech! …Oh, never mind, you. What did you want to talk to Mr. Crappy about today?”

* * *

 

Jack’s voice is baritone and smoky, comfortable and firm, like an easy chair. Bitty wants to settle into that voice, curl up and go to sleep. Just listening to the soft cadences, the upward lilt of his Canadian “eh"s and the descending tiers of his laughter, makes Bitty want to close his eyes and bask. When Jack’s on the air, Bitty curses the phone for ringing. He wants to spend time listening. And when he does, that’s when he learns that Jack isn’t just blessed with a beautiful voice but also with a dry wit and a nuanced take on politics that’s a breath of fresh air in a show like Shitty’s.

So Bitty starts talking to him more. They linger on the phone for minutes sometimes, talking this and that, before Bitty places Jack on hold to wait for Shitty to pick up. Jack’s kind, warm, funny. He’s a good listener. And listen he must, because Bitty has a tendency to ramble on when Jack’s on the line. It’s only a few weeks’ worth of calls before Jack’s learned where Bitty comes from, how he got the job with Shitty, that he used to be a hockey player, and even that he’s gay (not that Bitty really hides it).

All he knows about Jack, in return, is that Jack may be in a position of some public prominence. Oh, and Jack does insinuate, if not state outright, that he’s not straight either. Which throws Bitty’s mind into another realm of imagining altogether.

He starts hoping, when he comes in to work in the morning, that today will be a day Jack calls. And he starts thinking of Jack in other contexts. Like when he’s sitting alone in his little studio apartment, or when he’s baking a pie that he’ll have to give away to the station staff because there’s just no place to put it. Does Jack like pie? Would Jack eat his pies? Would Jack come over and stand just there, in the corner of the kitchenette, and look at him with bright eyes (what color are his eyes?) and a soft smile as Bitty moved to and fro, humming and mixing?

Would Jack move forward, after the pies were safely in the oven, and slip his hands around Bitty’s waist?

They’re ridiculous imaginings, not least because Bitty doesn’t have a face to put them with. But he can’t help feeling like Jack must be young, if not quite as young as Bitty himself. He must be well-built. And his face must be – well – Bitty’s not sure how to characterize the face he sees in his imagination when he thinks of Jack. He does imagine it is capable of all kinds of interesting expressions.

So when Jack pledges the thousand dollars and commits to showing up to the luncheon, Bitty goes all hot and cold inside. It’s finally going to happen. He’s going to meet Jack in Providence – a very big _if_ has turned into a _when._

And of course Bitty’s imagination goes haywire. What if Jack’s nothing like Bitty’s imagined? What if this is a nightmare waiting to unfold?

* * *

 

"Hello, you’ve reached the Political Party, and this would be Mister Jack in Providence, or does my Caller ID deceive me?”  
“Haha… no, it’s me. How was your Fourth of July?”  
“Full of relatives, mosquitoes and fireworks.”  
“Relatives, huh. So not the fun kind of fireworks?”  
“Well, that depends on the relative! Did you have a good Fourth… or did you celebrate Canada Day instead?”  
“A little of both. I was up visiting my parents last week.”  
“Summer vacation? Back to work today?”  
“Actually, no. I have most of the summer off.”  
“Are you a teacher, then?”  
“Hahah. Maybe.”  
“Well, you are a lucky duck. Our July’s just packed, with all this convention stuff. We’re actually broadcasting from the convention in Philadelphia in two weeks.”  
“Not going to Cleveland, then?”  
“Hahaha! Can you imagine Mr. Crappy in Cleveland? He’d get himself thrown out on his butt on Day One.”  
“I’m looking forward to meeting him in August.”  
“Oh, he’s a character! It will be a fun luncheon.”  
“I’m looking forward to meeting you even more.”  
“…”  
“…Anyway, I was calling about this Pokemon Go thing…”

* * *

 

The best thing to do, Bitty knows, is try to tamp down on his feelings. _When you think about Jack,_ he tells himself, _think about a 60-year-old, ugly, balding man. Think about someone who looks just like Professor Humphries from college. **That’s** your Jack in Providence._ He’s probably a state senator or something equally boring. That would explain the status, and the summers off, and the knowledge of politics.

That’s it. Jack must be a state senator. If you’re going to dream, Eric Bittle, dream about _voting_ for him someday. That, at least, has a chance of happening.

But still, Bitty finds himself stuck in fantasies about crossing the line from professional to personal. He _has_ Jack’s phone number. It shows up on the caller ID at work. And there are times when Bitty sits in his apartment, lonely, and thinks it would be nice if he could just call. Just to hear Jack’s voice drift into his ear for a few soft moments before bed.

But no, he tells himself, that way heartbreak lies. _Just think of the moment when you meet him in person. Just think of the disappointment._

He never expects Jack to be the one to cross that line first.

* * *

 

“Hi, Jack, honey, you’re late today, you won’t make it on the air.”  
“I didn’t call to get on the air. How are you, Bits?”  
“I’m… fine. What did you call for, then?”  
“To talk to you.”  
“ _Jack._ I’m at work.”  
“Then put me on hold until the show’s over. I want to talk with you.”  
“About what?”  
“…Nothing in particular.”  
“…Jack. This is my job, you know. I know we chat a lot, but I can’t just…”  
“I’m sorry. Of course you can’t. But… maybe you could call me sometime? Since you have my number and all.”  
“Oh, honey. I’d like to, really. But it’s a question of ethics. I can’t just use the phone numbers I see at work randomly in my off hours.”  
“I’m sorry. I suppose that crosses a line.”  
“No, it’s okay. I understand. But I do have to be professional.”  
“Of course. Can we still chat when I call in to the show?”  
“Why, Jack. I’d miss you…. that is, I’d miss it if we didn’t get a chance to chat.”  
“Thanks. Good luck in Philadelphia.”  
“Thank you, sweetheart. Bye now, Jack.”

* * *

 

It’s not that Bitty’s never made a friend over his phone lines. A while back, he got to talking with Chris in Manhattan, a California transplant who turned out to live just around the corner from Bitty himself. They met for coffee, and Bitty pretty much adored Chris from the get-go. They see each other regularly, often with Chris’s girlfriend in tow, and Bitty mothers them as though they’re his sweet, innocent children.

But this is different. Jack’s not local. And there’s zero percent chance that the interest Bitty has in him can stop at casual friendship. It occurs to him that he has no idea what Jack wants. He acts like he’s flirting, but sometimes, especially over the phone, it can be hard to tell.

It’s occurred to Bitty more than once before that a radio show is probably a good outlet for people who have trouble making friends in more traditional ways. Guaranteed conversation, with someone whose job it is to listen to and evaluate your opinion. For some people, that’s as close as they can get to real friendship, whether it’s because of crippling shyness, lack of social skills, or some other factors. Jack’s never struck him as one of those people, but maybe Bitty’s feelings have been clouding the truth. Maybe what comes across as flirting is just Jack trying really hard to make some kind of human contact in a controlled, safe environment. Maybe making friends in the real world is difficult for him.

In which case, Bitty should reprimand himself further. Now he’s got a crush on someone who’s not only potentially old, balding and ugly, but also a social misfit. Is this your life now, Bits? Is this the caliber of man you’re considering?

(But then that’s belied by the fact that he just thought of himself as Bits. The nickname Jack gave him. Damn it, this man has gotten to him.)

* * *

 

“Hallo, you’ve reached the Political Party with Mr. Crappy, this is Bitty, can I have your name, where you’re from, and what you’re calling about?”  
“I’m surprised. Usually you recognize me.”  
“Oh, Jack! Hallo! It’s this darned remote setup. It doesn’t give me caller ID like the studio phone does. It’s an absolute zoo here, and I don’t have any of my usual equipment. How are you?”  
“Good. I enjoyed watching the convention last night. Haha… Mr. Crappy’s in a state this morning, isn’t he.”  
“Well, you know. His dream is dying. But at least he’s on board with Hillary at last. Not that he’s got much of a choice, I suppose.”  
“I thought I might make him feel a little better this morning.”  
“Oh, really? That’s not your usual role.”  
“Maybe not, but I really think he has the right idea. Change to the party has to come from within.”  
“See, that’s what I’ve been saying.”  
“You’ve been a Hillary supporter from the start, haven’t you, Bits?”  
“That’s privileged information.”  
“Fair enough. Maybe you’ll tell me in two weeks, eh?”  
“Maybe I will. Let me put you through.”

* * *

 

Bitty comes home from Philadelphia exhausted and truly craving vacation. One more week to crawl through, then he and Shitty both have a glorious week off. Bitty hasn’t made a single plan. Spending the entire week just loafing in his apartment or bumming around New York sounds just perfect at this point. Of course, Bitty knows himself. He’ll probably bake a dozen pies and end up running himself ragged trying to play tourist. But for now, he’s holding close a pipe dream of being endlessly lazy.

But first, the luncheon.

10 a.m. on August 6, a Saturday morning, he and Shitty are meeting at the studio and taking a car over to the restaurant. Ransom and Holster will be there, too, and Larissa, but they’re arriving separately, warming up the donors before the legendary Mr. Crappy makes his appearance, Bitty in tow. Bitty had offered to go early, too, but Shitty wouldn’t hear of it. “You’re coming with me, brah,” he said, wrapping his arm around Bitty’s shoulder, and Bitty knew better than to argue.

It’ll be four hours of schmoozing and drinking mimosas and talking politcs, which would sound delightful if Bitty were thinking about any of it. But he’s not. He’s thinking of one moment. And everything else is just backdrop.

He meets Jack from Providence on Saturday.

It takes Bitty all week to decide on an outfit. He’s so very tempted to go with a bowtie, but the weather has been so brutal that a shirt and tie might as well be a torture device. He decides on a short-sleeved, button-down shirt and a nice pair of slacks that will let his legs breathe. Is it too straight-laced? Will Jack think he’s a nerd?

_Stop thinking about Jack,_ he tells himself. _Haven’t you already decided Jack’s ten thousand years old and a homely state senator who will bore you to pieces in person? Relax about Jack already!_ But Bitty’s too keyed up to fool himself. He knows – he just knows – this is going to be momentous. The only question is whether Bitty will trip over his tongue or his shadow first. One way or another, he’s doomed to fall flat on his face.

Jack doesn’t call the show that week, which makes things worse. What if he’s hurt himself? What if he’s in the hospital? Nobody’s going to call a radio show to inform the call screener of any mishap. Or, worse, what if he’s met someone? What if Jack’s a no-show at the luncheon because he’s fallen madly in love and is flying to Tahiti to elope?

Bitty’s been through every permutation of nightmare by the time they wrap the show on Friday. He crawls home and bakes more cookies than his apartment can comfortably hold. And then he sits by his window as night falls, watches the cars rocket past in the street below and cradles his phone in his hand.

* * *

 

“Hello. You’ve reached Jack. Leave a message.”

“…Jack? I shouldn’t be calling. It’s… it’s Bitty. From Mr. Crappy’s show. I really shouldn’t be doing this, but since we’re going to meet tomorrow I just thought… well. I’m… I’m looking forward to it!

"Did you listen to the show today? Mr. Crappy made me laugh! Did you hear what he said about the whole Taylor Swift situation? I thought Larissa was going to have a heart attack. But she just came back with that zinger… The two of them are funny, the way they talk to each other. It’s a lot of fun to listen to. I suppose I don’t have to tell you that…

"Isn’t it funny? I still don’t know what you do… maybe you’ll tell me tomorrow, hm? There’s a lot about you I don’t know. Which is why I shouldn’t be calling you like this, I guess…

"I made a whole ton of cookies today. I wasn’t planning on baking for the luncheon, but I guess it can’t hurt to bring some cookies, right? I hope you like sweet things. I… do a lot of baking, especially when I’m nervous." 

"I’m… really… happy about meeting you tomorrow. I know this is… a little silly, but… I hope it’s okay. That I called, I mean. I know I talked a lot.

”…Anyway, good night, Jack. See you tomorrow.“

* * *

 

Bitty can’t hear a thing. The pounding of his heart is drowning out everything – the noise of the traffic as they drive by, Shitty’s conversation with the driver, the dull hum of the radio on low volume beneath their conversation. Every sound registers just as a dim buzzing.  When Shitty nudges him and laughs, Bitty doesn’t respond. He doesn’t know what they’re laughing at. He only knows that he’s going somewhere and Jack from Providence is going to be there.  His world is a wash of panicked red.

He gets out of the car like he’s in a dream. Things start to resolve into reality as he follows Shitty into the restaurant, sees the doorway to the function room lurking ahead of them with the excited buzz of conversation. He hears Holster’s laugh. The sound of Ransom’s voice, mid-joke. And slowly, very slowly, the dim figures of people start to take shape. As Shitty enters, arms spread wide, and the room bursts into applause, Bitty feels everything suddenly sharpen and take shape.

He’s here. Jack’s here. Somewhere.

But which one is Jack?

He scans the room with desperate eyes. A group of girls stands near the head of the long table. One of them towers over the others. Beside them, Derek from Samwell is engaged in a pleasant conversation with a guy Bitty doesn’t recognize. He’s portly, with a pair of round glasses. Is that Jack? Toward the back of the room there’s Ransom and Holster, partially obscuring a fellow whose face is hidden by a baseball cap. Then there’s Jen from Virginia and Jaimie from D.C., regular donors who traveled up together to make the last luncheon. There’s a tall, dark-skinned, bald man and a guy with uneven eyebrows and a perpetually confused expression. Both of them are listening to a guy in a baseball jersey make a point about delegate math. Either one of them could be Jack in Providence. But Bitty doesn’t know. He doesn’t think so.

Maybe Jack didn’t even make it here today. Maybe Bitty’s worst fears were true. If something’s happened to him, it would explain why he didn’t call this week, why he didn’t answer the phone last night. Bitty starts to feel faint. People are starting to take notice of him – those girls near the head of the table are whispering and giggling and looking in his direction – and pretty soon he’ll have to start introducing himself. And shaking hands, and schmoozing, and being polite. And altogether pretending he is not dying on the inside.

He seeks out Shitty. Of everyone there, Shitty’s the only one who has a clue how desperate Bitty is right now. Maybe Shitty will see his distress, rescue him. Sweep him out of the room and to someplace safe where he can be a nervous wreck in private. But no, Shitty’s too busy being the host with the most, clapping people on the back, shaking hands and shouting gregarious greetings. Right at this moment he’s welcoming the guy in the baseball cap, calling him a "beautiful son of a bitch” as baseball cap guy turns and–

–and baseball cap guy has gorgeous, piercing blue eyes that slide right past Shitty and land on Bitty’s–

–and their gazes lock, and Bitty _knows.  
_

He takes a step forward. He takes a step forward, and so does Jack, because this is Jack, Bitty knows like he’s always known, and if he had any doubt to begin with it’s blown away by the way Jack’s lips part and the way he pushes past Shitty as though he’s nobody. Jack’s looking at him like he’s been lost at sea and has just caught sight of the shore. 

A scant half-dozen steps, and then Jack’s hand slips into his and Bitty’s lost in a dream again.


	4. Jack POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a few adjustments to this chapter from the Tumblr post.

_Bits._

The name sounds, like a thunderclap, in Jack’s head.

It wasn’t a moment ago the name was a question. A doubt, even. Does _Bits_ even exist? Bitty certainly does. Bitty is the name of the screener for Jack’s favorite radio show, his companion through the morning for a year and change now. Bitty is unfailingly pleasant, unerringly professional, and untouchable. He handles callers with a lilt, a friendly word, and a toss off onto the airwaves. Jack made his acquaintance several months back, and he’s enjoyed their every interaction.

But _Bits._ Now, that’s someone Jack isn’t sure he hasn’t conjured up in his head.

_Bits_ exists in the soft cluck of Bitty’s tongue, the hitch of breath between words. The pause before he intones Jack’s name, leaning on the “a” like it’s a cushion. _Bits_ is the person Jack imagines Bitty to be, behind the phones. He’s a friend, a confidant. A ray of light in Jack’s life. And in Jack’s mind, Bits is just a little more friendly with him with all his other callers. Maybe he even feels something at the sound of Jack’s voice, the way Jack does at every musical “Hallo!”

Jack has come here today half-terrified that he’d discover Bits doesn’t exist at all. That Bitty, as competent and admirable as he is, is _all_ there is, and whatever relationship  he’d imagined they’d been nurturing has been a figment of his imagination this whole time.

Now Bitty comes into focus like a blue sky when the clouds have parted. He wasn’t there, and suddenly he is; he must have been in the room before, but it’s only now that Jack’s eyes land on him and recognize.

But when their eyes meet, and Bitty’s brown eyes widen and then dance, Jack knows _Bits_ is real.

* * *

Mr. Crappy is in front of him now. Greeting him, thanking him for coming. Jack couldn’t care less. He lays a hand on Mr. Crappy’s arm, pushes past him, and strides through the throng. Bitty’s hurrying forward, too, the beginnings of a smile teasing at his parted lips, and Jack’s heartbeat is banging a rainstorm in his ears.

Jack recognizes him, of course. He’s seen the pictures on Mr. Crappy’s Faceboook page. But it’s so different, between static, impersonal photos and reality. And reality is so, so vivid. Bitty’s all sunshine and long limbs and unadorned beauty. The pictures didn’t begin to do him justice. Jack’s finger itches for the shutter of his own camera. Someone needs to capture those features, do them justice.

But not now. Now is the moment they come face to face.

Jack stretches out his hand and feels Bitty’s fingers slip into his. His heart drifts off to sea. He never wants it to see shore again.

The word, the name, makes its way up from his heart into his throat, then bursts from his lips. “Bits.”

Bitty stirs, as though the sound of Jack’s voice is a surprise. “J… Jack. It’s Jack, right?”

The voice, Bits’ voice, right there in front of him! Jack couldn’t stop the grin from rolling onto his face if he tried. “Right,” he says. “Hey.”

“H-hey.” Color rises to Bitty’s cheeks, a rosy smudge. Jack has the sudden, totally inappropriate urge to inch his thumb along the line of it, see if the color runs.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” he says. The truth, adorned only by the width of his grin. He doesn’t remember smiling this much when he hoisted the Stanley Cup.

“It is? I mean, it is! I mean, to meet you. Too. Gosh. I’m a little nervous! I wondered! What this would be like, meeting you.” Bitty speeds into chatterbox overdrive. Not that Jack would think of stopping him. Not for the world. “And wouldn’t you know it, you look nothing like I thought. Well. You do and you don’t. I’m not sure how to explain it. I told myself you’d look a certain way, but I had the feeling you’d look another way instead. So I suppose I was wrong _and_ I was right! Oh, gosh, listen to me, I’m rambling already–”

Bitty’s hand is still in his. Jack gives it a squeeze. “It’s all right,” he says. “I’ve waited a long time to hear you ramble in person.”

“Oh.” Bitty goes very still, and looks down at their joined fingers, frozen mid-handshake. “Well. Now I’m speechless.”

Jack withdraws his hand. The air around his fingers is unbearably cool. He steps forward and warms them again, this time against the small of Bitty’s back. Bitty makes a soft noise, barely more than a hitch of breath.

“Come on,” Jack says, “let’s sit down.”

* * *

“Wait. You’re Jack ZIMMERMANN?”

Bitty stands straight up. His chair flies back and threatens to tip over. Jack catches it with an outstretched hand, lifting his other hand to his lips. “Shh.”

His eyes still bugging out, Bitty sits gingerly on the edge of his seat and leans in toward Jack conspiratorially. “But,” he stage-whispers, “but… I’ve watched you on TV! I saw you get the Stanley Cup! How did I not recognize you? How  did I not recognize your voice? You’re putting me on.”

“I swear.” Jack raises his right hand like he’s about to testify in court. “Maybe it was the playoff beard.”

“Maybe. And okay, I really just watched the games and not the interviews, but still.” Bitty pouts. “I’m not so convinced. I think you and Shitty are pulling a prank on me.”

“Me and who?” Jack blinks.

“Oh! Oh, no, did I say?” Bitty flushes. “We don’t usually tell people this, but ‘Mr. Crappy’ is, um, a simplification. We don’t say his real name on the air.”

“His real name? I thought his real name was Brandon Knight.”

“Oh. That’s his _given_ name, sure. Shitty’s what we all call him. It was his hockey name, I guess.”

“Wait.” Jack leans in. He can feel the smile on his face, and it aches in the best say. “Mr. Crappy played hockey, too?”

Bitty’s look of confusion-slash-annoyance is adorable. “Well, of course, how do you think I got this job?”

“You told me you went to the same school. You didn’t say you played together.”

“Oh! Oh, we didn’t! Shitty graduated the year before I came in as a freshman. But I lived in the same house, well, it’s called the Haus, and there was this upperclassman named Johnson who said we’d get along, and…” He flaps a hand. “It’s a long story.”

Jack wants to hear more. He gets the strange sense he belongs in this story, like he was there without being there. He knows the cast of characters, and it only takes him a moment to conjure up the image of a dilapidated frat house on a sunny college campus, young Bitty  on the porch in sunglasses, a loose shirt and shorts, carefree and beautiful. College was something Jack never got to experience, and he misses it without ever having been there. He would have liked to play hockey with Bitty, to share a house with him and hear that lilting voice every day. It seems a great waste that he never did.

But Bitty’s here now. Newly amazed by the fact of his presence, Jack lets his eyes wander. Down and up again, lingering at slender wrists, firm hips, long legs. Bitty catches him looking and flushes. “ _Jack_ ,” he chides, and the way he leans on the word starts a fire deep in Jack’s gut. He has to look away until he gets it under control.

* * *

“Excuse me very much, you two little bastards.”

Jack pauses mid-laugh and looks away from Bitty to find Mr. Crappy – no – Shitty, standing over them with crossed arms and an expression that’s halfway frustration, halfway delight. A crooked smile coexists with an angry brow dipped into a V, and anywhere else they’d seem incongruous, but not on Shitty’s face. He twists his lips and clears his throat.

“Don’t get me wrong, brahs, I’m all about the lovefest happening here, but I haven’t even had a chance to say anything but hello to the illustrious Mr. Zimmermann. Bitty, why don’t you go greet some of your fans? You’ve been downright antisocial.” He kicks at the leg of Bitty’s chair.

Bitty hops to his feet with a shout and a grin. “Yes _sir_ Mr. Crappy _sir,”_ he says, shooting Shitty a dirty look, and Shitty just fuzzes his hair and gives him a push. It’s all done with huge stupid grins on, and there’s not an ounce of bad blood there – just two friends giving each other merry hell. Somehow the sight of it warms Jack’s heart.

He watches Bitty start to round the table, introducing himself to the guests, then turns to Shitty. “It’s nice to meet you,” he says.

In response, Shitty engulfs him in a hug. “You stupid beautiful son of a bitch,” he says, “God, it’s good to meet you. He plants a wet sloppy kiss on Jack’s cheek. “First of all, you have to know I love your work.”

“Thanks.” Jack wipes off his cheek, smiling. “I like yours, too.”

“Which is why you’re such a raging pain in my ass,” Shitty says. “But in all seriousness, brah. I’m so glad you came. Thanks for everything you bring to the show. It is hella fun to talk to you, and who knows, man, maybe one of these days you might get me to budge on something.”

“Or you might get _me_ to,” Jack says. He trades easy smiles with Shitty. Yes, this is their relationship come to life, he thinks - a teasing, genuine respect. Standing here with him for the first time, Jack can see them arguing years and years down the line, Shitty getting hot-headed, Jack maintaining his cool, then the two of them toasting to good conversation. It’s not the same tingly vision of the future he gets when he looks at Bitty, but it’s pleasant in its own way. It’s as though they’ve been friends for years.

“Now.” Shitty pats his shoulder. Jack’s surprisingly okay with his easy physicality. It’s another flavor of the ass-slapping, close-quarters friendliness of the locker room, and it feels comfortable. “On to the more important matters. I’m gonna have to question your intentions with regard to my screener.”

“Oh. Heh.” Warmth rises to Jack’s cheeks. What was that he’d just thought about maintaining his cool? His eyes dart toward Bitty.

“Damn, son,” Shitty says, laughing as Jack’s face heats further. “I should fire his ass for chatting up the callers too much. Oh, oh, don’t give me that face, Zimmermann. First of all, you’re the only one he talks to for fifteen minutes at a clip, and second of all, he’s too good to lose. As I see you’re finding out. Chill. I give you my blessing. Just don’t you do wrong by him or I will Googlebomb you like Savage did to Santorum, you hear me?”

Jack isn’t sure whether to be shellshocked or to laugh. Mr. Crappy waggles an eyebrow at him, and he decides on the latter, bursting out with a snorting chuckle before nodding. “I’ll be good to him.” His brain turns over the implications of Shitty’s speech for a second, and he frowns. “Does that mean that Bits is – has Bits told you that–”

“Wait, stop, hold the phone and halt the presses. _Bits_?”

“Well, yeah. Bitty, so Bits.”

Shitty barks out a laugh. “That’s afuckingdorable. I love it.”

“Wait.” Jack shakes his head. “You both go by hockey nicknames and you never thought of that?”

“I don’t know, brah! It sounds like a no-brainer when  you say it, but to me – he’s Bitty. Just look at him, he’s Bitty.” Shitty spreads his hands out, palms upward, as though laying the evidence out before a jury. “But I can see Bits. You go with Bits, he’s Bitty to me.”

Jack lobs a wicked smirk at him. “Which makes you Shits.”

“It– _fuck,_ you’re right,” Shitty says with a moan. “All right, I accept the indignity. I’ve lived with Mr. Crappy for a half a decade now.”

“Don’t see how it’s any worse than Shitty,” Jack says, meaning it.

“Look, Zimmermann, it’s like this. One’s a descriptor, the other’s a pile of… oh, never fucking mind. Shut up and go make sweet love to my screener,” Shitty slaps him on the back with another laugh. “It’s an honor, man. Next time  you’re in town fucking over the Rangers, holler. We’ll have a drink after the game.”

“The honor’s all mine,” Jack says, shaking his hand one final time. He means that, too.

* * *

Bitty’s still circling the table, saying hello to all the guests. Jack sits for a while and watches him work the room, enjoying every smile and every delightful peal of laughter. He can’t believe his luck. If what Shitty said – what he implied – is true, then today might be the start of something new and amazing.

Last night he got a message on his cell phone. It was late and he didn’t recognize the number, but he gave it a listen anyway, and then listened six more times. Bitty’s voice, lilting and rambling and lighting up his whole night. Jack had closed his eyes and felt that voice sinking into him. Talking about making cookies. And Taylor Swift, and that he was excited to meet Jack. Jack listened to it until he had memorized every cadence. _I’m really.. happy… about meeting you tomorrow._

And now tomorrow is today, and Bitty catches his gaze from across the room, shooting him a smile. Color touches his cheeks. Jack wonders, idly, what would happen if he jumped up on the table, stomped across the wood to the other side of the room, and swept Bitty up into a kiss. Right now, here, in front of everyone. His whole body flushes with just the image.

He clenches a fist to control himself and waits.

As the luncheon goes on, he manages to start some conversations with the people around him. Derek from Samwell is laid-back and knowledgable, with some interesting thoughts on the nature of radicalism. Larissa Duan is surprisingly petite, given her voice and persona on the air, but she has a remarkably comforting presence to her. Jen from Virginia asks for a selfie. He wavers for a minute, then agrees, pulling Jaimie from D.C. into the picture as well. He’s not sure if they know him from hockey or just from being Jack in Providence. Either is okay with him. He’s proud of what he’s accomplished as a Falconer, but it’s nice to be known for something else as well.

Any other day, any other time, Jack would want to stay. These are nice people he’s meeting. Like-minded, good souls. Potential friends. He’d want to get their numbers, make plans to get together when he’s in the area. He’s not wonderful at socializing, especially in big groups like this, but somehow it’s easy. They all have Mr. Crappy in common, and that makes them family.

But when Bitty returns, sidling up to Jack and asking if he’s behaved himself and if Shitty told him anything incriminating, Jack looks at him for a long silent moment, then leans down to whisper in his ear.

“Let’s get out of here.”

* * *

 

“…and then the congressman says to me, with a mustache like that, are you sure he’s a liberal? Well, I didn’t know what he was implying, exactly, but I up and said to him, Congressman, all the greatest mustaches of our time have been liberal. I may be young, but I’m old enough to remember Henry Waxman! And I tell you, Jack, I’ve never seen a man in a suit with an American flag lapel pin laugh that hard in his life.”

The story’s gone on since 63rd Street. They’re just coming up to Rockefeller Center, and at the sight of it Bitty visibly thrills. “Have you been here before?” he asks. “I mean, to the rink? It’s closed right now, of course, it being August and all. But I come skating here every season. I come early, before the tourists are too thick. The line’s usually back to here.” He indicates a spot by the balcony that overlooks the area, then leans forward on it, elbows bent on the railing. “Sometime maybe when you’re back in town, we can go. I’m sure they’d give an NHL star a preferred reservation. Not that I’m trying to use you to get in anywhere, of course!”

“Bits. It’s fine.” Jack leans on the railing next to him. He tries to imagine the area beneath thick with ice, music playing and bundled-up skaters enjoying a loop or two around. “I’d love to skate with you.”

“If you’re lucky, I’ll show you a jump or two. I used to figure skate, before hockey. Bet you didn’t know that.” Bitty is gloating a little. It’s cute.

“Bet I didn’t,” Jack says with a smile.

Bitty scowls. “You’re such a puzzle, Jack Zimmermann. How’d you even end up listening to Shitty’s show in the first place?”

“Well.” Jack gives a shrug and fixes his eyes on the golden statue that sits atop a fountain at one side of the recessed area. “I’ve always liked politics. I like history a lot. And politics is history, only it’s happening right now. It’s about people’s lives, and how the world changes.”

“Yes, but.. You’re Canadian. Why U.S. politics?”

“I’ve been living and working in this country for seven years now. But to be honest… I’ve always liked U.S. politics. There’s something grand and ridiculous about it. The U.S. is so self-important. It stole the word ‘American.’ That used to refer to Canadians too.” Bitty opens his mouth like he’s going to speak, but clams up again. “But that isn’t the reason I started listening.

“I was jogging one morning, and I had a radio app. I usually listened to the news, but it recommended this station and I clicked.” Jack smiles at the memory. “All of a sudden I had an earful of some guy going on about masculinity and sports culture and what it mean to be a ‘bro,’ and, well… there was a lot of truth there. So I kept tuning in. It wasn’t exactly my politics, but it was so interesting. And I learned a lot.”

“And then you called in for the first time, and the rest is history,” Bitty fills in.

Jack gazes at him. “No,” he says slowly, “not history. Not yet.”

"Well," Bitty says with a nervous laugh, "then I suppose it must be politics!"

"What?" Jack squints.

Bitty's eyes go wide, and he scrambles to explain. "It's just, you said politics was history, only it's happening right now. So if it's not history yet, it must be politics. Right?"

Jack can’t bear the space between them one moment longer. He reaches out and covers Bitty’s hand with his own. "Bits," he says with a small smile, "what's happening here... definitely isn't politics."

Bitty flushes a deep rose. His eyes are huge and brown and deep enough to drown in. He coughs, smiles softly, and looks away, following Jack’s gaze toward the statue.

They’re shoulder to shoulder, leaning over the railing, hands caught together. The August sun is reflecting off stone surfaces and golden statues, and a piece of it is caught in Bitty’s eyes. Jack can’t stop staring. He’s close enough to lean in and taste the corners of those sun-drenched eyes, trail kisses down the lightly freckled planes of Bitty’s cheeks and drown himself in Bitty’s beautiful lips. It would be so easy.

But a piece of him is singing _caution, caution._ And though they’ve been talking for months, they’ve only known each other in person for this one day. Jack tamps down on the hammering of his heart and pulls himself upright.

“I, um.” He looks around, catching the tail end of the time scrolling by on the NBC marquee. “I guess I should let you get home, huh? I have to drive home tonight. Practice tomorrow morning.”

“Oh.” The light in Bitty’s eyes fades. “I suppose. I mean… if you have to leave. I guess…”

All Jack’s restraint is useless against those disappointed eyes. “But maybe we could get some dinner first?” he hears himself say.

Ah, _there’s_ that August sunlight again.

* * *

The light is still in Bitty’s eyes, even though the sun has long since set. Dinner was long and full of conversation. Jack’s heard all about Bitty’s hometown and the culture shock of coming to the Northeast for school. Bitty’s drawn some stories from Jack, too – behind-the-scenes details from work; a few admissions about his personal life, or lack thereof; and more than one truly terrible joke that led Bitty to both groan and laugh. Even being laughed at felt wonderful. Jack could watch the expressions flicker by on Bitty’s face for days.

Now, they walk up the street toward Jack’s hotel, chatting lightly about summer destinations and dream vacations. Somewhere around 53rd Street, Bitty’s hand found Jack’s again. They’re in the sixties now and Bitty’s fingers are still nestled snug in Jack’s grasp.

“But I think it has to be Paris,” Bitty is saying when they arrive in front of the double doors. “I mean, the pastries alone are a reason to endure the flight, don’t you think?”

“They _are_ good pastries,” Jack says. His heart is starting to wobble treacherously. This is undoubtedly the end of the night, and he’s not ready. “I guess… um, we should say good night?”

“Yeah. I suppose… I’ll hear you on the phone lines soon?” Bitty smiles, but there’s a wince in it.

“I… yeah.” _Caution, caution,_ sings that voice.  “Is your apartment far? I could drop you off on my way out of town.”

“No, that’s okay.” Bitty hooks his thumb over his shoulder. “The subway’s just over there.”

“It’s no trouble,” Jack says. _Caution, caution!_ It’s only been a day.

“I know, it’s fine.”

“I’ll talk to you soon, then.” 

“Mm-hm. Sure.”

"Bye, then."

"Yeah. Bye."

_“Come to Providence with me.”_

Jack takes in a breath of air. Was that his voice, just now? Did he say that?

Yes. Yes, he said it. He said it and he meant it, and those voices of caution can go linger in their corner because this is life, and it’s meant for living. His pulse rides high in his throat and the summer air hangs around him all buzzing and alive. In front of him, Bitty stands silenced, his mouth pursed into a round O, his hand still warm and real in Jack’s own.

“Come to Providence with me,” Jack repeats, lingering on the words this time, savoring the feeling of saying them. “You have a vacation, right? I’ll drive you by your apartment. You can get some things together, and we’ll drive up. You can stay as long as you want. I…” His voice breaks a little. “I don’t want to say good night.”

“I–” Bitty takes in a quick breath. “I don’t – I’ve never – this has never, I wouldn’t– _yes_.”

“I’m sorry,” Jack starts, “I shouldn’t have… what?”

Bitty steps closer and grabs Jack’s other hand. “Yes,” he says. “Yes. Let’s go to Providence. I don’t want to say good night, either. Jack, I–”

In a motion, Jack slides his hands up Bitty’s arms to his shoulders and pulls him in. Bitty’s hands alight on his waist, cinch into his shirt.

He lowers his head carefully, aware of each moment, every breath that goes by. Aware of Bitty’s face radiating a soft heat. Of his own flush answering. Close enough now, that their noses touch. Now close enough that Bitty tilts his head, that Jack’s hand creeps to his jaw to guide him in. Close enough that their foreheads brush - close enough to feel – to taste –

Bitty’s kiss sears him like a bolt of lightning. In the wake of the lurch of heat, though, there’s all warmth, and Jack presses into it joyfully, pulling Bitty closer, licking at his lips and the tip of his tongue when Bitty’s lips part to let him in. Bitty smiles against his mouth, then purses his lips to kiss Jack harder and sighs. His hands ride up Jack’s back. Jack never wants to feel them let go. He kisses Bitty for what must be a full minute, if not more, knowing they’re giving the bellhops a show, not caring. It hurts to pull back.

“I hope you’re a fast driver,” Bitty murmurs, and there’s a seductive growl in his voice that makes Jack’s skin tingle.

“I’ll get us there quickly, I promise.” Jack hears the breathlessness in his own voice and thrills to it.

They hold hands as the valet retrieves the car. Jack looks over at Bitty in the passenger seat and feels his pulse speed up. It’s ten minutes in New York traffic until they can get to Bitty’s apartment, but only five for Bitty to race up and come back down again with a duffel bag and a Tupperware full of cookies. And then they’re off, speeding over the bridge and eastward on the Connecticut highway toward a new beginning.

* * *

“Well, it’s the Political Party and I’m Mr. Crappy, back from a week of vacation in an undisclosed location, much like Dick Cheney. I’m tanned and rested, brahs, and I’ll tell you something else – I have had my faith in humanity restored.  And by humanity I mean romance, and by romance I mean true freaking love. No, no, I didn’t meet anyone, and by the way who you love and if you love doesn’t define your worth as a person, just in case you needed to hear it today. But damn, it’s heartwarming to see it happen in real time.

“And that’s all I’m going to tell you! Because you can’t call in and ask me about it, because I appear to be down one screener. Bitty tells me he’ll be back tomorrow, but let me tell you, if he takes this whole week off, I’m not even gonna be pissed. There’s not a lot left that takes my breath away, but even I know magic when I see it. And you do _not_ get in the way of magic.

“But enough about Harry Potter, let’s get down to politics. And can we just say, the Trumpplebeast and his army of morons? Not magic. Not even close…”


End file.
